You couldn't not notice the bruise on the side of her face. Or the hickey under her chin.
They were almost never alone, and now that they almost-practically were, he felt kind of frantic for her attention.
¿Cómo era posible que hubiera tantas terminaciones nerviosas en tan poca piel? ¿Estaban siempre ahí o se activaban a su antojo? Porque, si estaban siempre ahí, ¿cómo era posible girar un picaporte sin desmayarse?
Eleanor was right. She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.
Sometimes, it seemed like she was trying to hide everything that was pretty about her. Like she wanted to look ugly.
You think I'm cute?" He said thinkly, pulling on her hand. She was glad he couldn't see her face. "I think you're..." Beautiful. Breathtaking. Like the person in a Greek myth who makes one of the gods stop caring about being a god.
You look like you. Only with the volume turned up.
She wanted to lose herself in him. To tie his arms around her like a tourniquet. If she showed him how much she needed him, he'd run away.
He's mad at me." "For what?" "For not being like him." Eleanor looked dubious. "Has he been mad at you for the last sixteen years?" "Basically.
He'd stopped trying to bring her back. She only came back when she felt like it anyway, in dreams and lies and broken-down déjà vu.
His eyes missed her as much as the rest of him.
And in those moments, Park thought about pulling back from her. "Not breaking up with her. That phrase didn't even seem to apply here. Just . . . erasing away. Recovering the six inches between them
(Or maybe she was just more afraid of being like everyone else.)
How could it be possible that there were that many nerve endings all in one place?
Because all her feelings for him – hot and beautiful in her heart – turned to gobbledygook in her mouth.
Eleanor hated it when her mom acted like that. Relentlessly submissive. It was humiliatng to be in the same room.
To have and hold. Not forever, maybe-not forever, for sure-and not figuratively. But literally. And now. Now, he was hers.
I'm sorry about yesterday," she said. He hung on to his straps and shrugged. "Yesterday happens.
